


Asking for a Fix

by sammyatstanford



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Pre-Series, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning, Underage Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 14:15:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3939889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammyatstanford/pseuds/sammyatstanford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What do you think I’m gonna do with it?” Dean swings the baggie in his direction. “<em>We</em> are gonna smoke it, moron.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Asking for a Fix

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bazzle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazzle/gifts).



> This story contains sex under the influence, and all issues of dubious consent inherently associated therewith.
> 
> Based on a prompt from Tumblr user [sweet-cherry-dean](http://sweet-cherry-dean.tumblr.com). With extra special thanks to [Kara](http://fenharelen.tumblr.com) for all of her assistance <3!

Dad’s been gone for two weeks, and it’s two Fridays before Sam’s spring break is due to start, a fact which Sam can’t seem to ignore as he stares up at the ceiling from where he’s reclined on the threadbare carpet in the living room of their apartment, arms crossed over his chest so the skin not covered by his t-shirt won’t get itchy. He doesn’t want to be pissy, but he really likes it here, likes his Algebra teacher and the kids who invite him to play basketball in the park on the weekends, and he just, for once, would really like to not pack up and leave the minute his vacation starts, end up finishing out the semester at some other school in some other town. He knows way better than to get his hopes up at this point, but Dad hadn’t mentioned anything before he left and hasn’t said anything to Dean on the phone about being ready to go when he gets back. The not knowing is even worse than finding out they’re leaving for sure because the little part of Sam that hasn’t completely given up can’t help but yearn.

The scrape of a key in the lock interrupts his ruminations, and Dean elbows through the door, both hands overloaded with grocery bags. Sam drags himself up off the floor to help, relieves Dean of half his burden and drops the bags on the kitchen counter.

“Well hello to you too, sunshine,” Dean says, all sarcasm, a cock of his eyebrow in Sam’s direction.

Sam makes a face before he can stop himself. “Hey,” he replies. Considers it, then adds, “Sorry.” He frowns down at his hands and shucks plastic off two bags of generic brand cereal with much more force than necessary. It’s not Dean’s fault. It’s never Dean’s fault.

“A little broody this afternoon, are we?” Dean’s tone is teasing, gets Sam’s back up immediately despite his good intentions.

“Shut the fuck up,” he replies, and Dean snickers.

“Aww, honey, now that’s no way to treat the man who brings home the bacon.”

Sam pulls a giant jar of store label peanut butter out of a bag, where some idiot had put it on top of the now half-squished loaf of white bread. He holds it up, doesn’t even have to roll his eyes to make his point.

“Hey now, peanut butter has just as much protein as bacon!” Dean retorts, and then shrugs. “Probably. Whatever, you like it. Hey, I even got bananas for cheap! I mean we gotta eat ‘em in the next few days because they didn’t look so hot, but you know, weird sandwiches, your favorite!”

That does make Sam laugh, the little cloud of his mood lightening from stormy black to melancholy grey. He takes the bananas out of their bag. They’re liberally speckled with brown and smell too sweet already, so he puts them in the fridge to stave off any more ripening. He turns back to the counter, takes in the spread of food that’s already started to disappear into cabinets. It’s a lot, and he can’t help the little bubble of hope that appears right under his sternum.

He puts a few more things away, says as casually as possible, “There’s a lot here.”

“Got paid today,” Dean offers back.

“Right, it’s Friday.” He shoves blue Kraft boxes into a cabinet, drops his hands down to the counter top, drums his fingers on the cheap formica, takes a deep breath. “It’s just, uh…it’s probably more than two weeks’ worth, is all.”

The sound of rustling plastic stops behind him, and he knows Dean’s looking at him but he doesn’t want to see the look he knows is gonna be there, something between exasperation and pity and worst of all guilt, so he stays facing the wall, head down and gaze on his ragged cuticles. He’s surprised when the warm weight of Dean’s hands comes down on his shoulders, just below the bend of his neck.

“I don’t know, Sammy,” Dean answers without Sam even having to ask. “But he told me to spend the kitty so.” Sam feels Dean’s sigh on his skin. “So, maybe.” Sam nods at his hands. Dean stays there for a minute behind him, warm and comforting in a way that makes Sam want to blush because he’s sixteen and he shouldn’t need this shit anymore, before he claps a palm on Sam’s back and says, “Come on, help me finish putting this stuff away. I got something to show you.”

They put the rest of the groceries away in comfortable silence, and then Dean boosts himself up onto the counter, boots bouncing hollowly against the lower cabinets as he settles. “Com’ere,” he demands, and Sam comes, stands between Dean’s legs as Dean pulls off his jacket, digs around in one of the inside pockets. “Check it out,” he grins, and he pulls out a Ziploc baggie holding what even Sam knows is marijuana.

“Dean!” he says, and then flushes immediately because he sounds like some sort of scandalized housewife, but Dean’s already laughing at him so it’s too late. “Dad would be _so_ pissed,” he continues grumpily, crossing his arms and turning his chin away, but his eyes keep bouncing back to the bag dangling between Dean’s fingers, the out-of-focus smirk Dean’s sporting in the background. He’s never actually seen pot in person, just in pictures in Health class textbooks, and the well-behaved, good-kid part of him is telling him to be horrified but the more normal teenaged part is just plain curious.

“Dad’s not here,” Dean says back, and Sam’s eyes bounce up to his face because Dean doesn’t usually say shit like that, doesn’t like to give Sam any extra ammo in his constant attempts to defy their father.

“Well, what are you gonna do with it?”

“What do you think I’m gonna do with it?” Dean swings the baggie in his direction. “ _We_ are gonna smoke it, moron.”

There’s a little thrill of excitement up Sam’s spine because fuck yeah, that’s kind of awesome, Dean wanting to smoke up with him like he’s not four years older and infinitely cooler than his little brother, and a feeling of dread in his stomach that wants to say no and knows how much Dean would mock him if he did. “I thought you said I wasn’t allowed to use that stuff,” he hedges, wants to look away but the brightness in Dean’s eyes is magnetic, makes his brother actually look his age.

“You sure as hell aren’t with _strangers_ ,” Dean says firmly, then reaches out and thumbs over the skin exposed by Sam’s shirt where his shoulder meets his neck. “But I’ll take care of you, yeah?”

Sam finally pulls his eyes away, starts worrying at the cuticles on his right hand with the fingers of his left. “I don’t…I don’t know.”

“Hey, come on,” Dean says, and his voice has lost that douchebag edge it tends to pick up when he’s wheedling, become something softer and friendlier instead. “It’s okay if you don’t want to. I just thought it might cheer you up, kiddo.” He ruffles a hand through Sam’s hair and Sam ducks away from it instinctively.

 _Not a kid_ , he wants to protest, but instead he chews his lip for a minute, looks at Dean out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah, okay, let’s do it,” he agrees, feels his heart jumping harder in answering happiness at the way Dean lights up with excitement like they’re five and just found out about a surprise Disney vacation. Jesus, his brother is weird.

“Awesome, dude!” Dean says, jumping off the counter and grabbing his coat and hooking fingers around Sam’s wrist and dragging him out of the kitchen all in one continuous motion. They end up on the couch, Sam’s back tucked up into one corner of the cushions while Dean pulls a little pack of papers out of his jacket where they were hiding, too. This isn’t exactly a learning exercise, since he’s not planning to do it on his own any time soon, but he still can’t take his eyes off the motion of Dean’s fingers, easy and practiced the way he is putting together a gun, all the right force in all the right places, delicate and precise. The pink drag of his tongue to seal the paper catches Sam off guard, final tweaks of Dean’s dexterous fingers making him feel warm under his skin with anticipation. The air already smells kinda gross, like skunk or maybe all the bad parts of coffee.

Dean pulls his Zippo out of his front pocket, sticks the spliff between his lips. “Should we—can we smoke that inside?” Sam asks him, and Dean cocks an eyebrow.

“You gonna tell on us, Sammy?” Dean asks, but he gets up off the couch anyway, shrugs into his jacket, and Sam follows him to the balcony door. The glass is scratched up and permanently foggy in a few places, frame bent so that it takes a lot of effort to force it to slide open along its track. They squeeze out onto the tiny balcony, barely wide enough for them to stand shoulder-to-shoulder. Sam puts his back to the waist-high wall, wishing he was wearing more than just a t-shirt against the chill of the evening air, props his elbows up onto the ledge and leans into them.

“Happy?” Dean asks, but his tone is dismissive. The fact that they’re outside at all means he thinks Sam was right, anyway, so Sam doesn’t bother responding. Instead he watches Dean deftly flick the wheel on his lighter twice before it catches, bring it up to joint between his lips, takes in the complex little movements of his mouth as the flame catches and settles, bright, glowing orange, into the paper. Watches the rise of Dean’s chest, the way his eyes close as he inhales, the curl of smoke past his lips when he breathes it out. He does it once more before he turns to Sam.

“Okay, watch me,” he commands. “Try not to get a buncha spit on it when you put it in your mouth. Then you just inhale, pull right down into your chest, yeah?” He acts out the motions, blunt to his lips and then he flutters his lashes over a deep suck of air. “And then you hold it there,” he continues, voice high and tight with the strain of keeping the smoke in, “until you feel the burn and just,” smoke rushing out of his mouth like a wave, “let it go.” His grin is already looking a little lazy around the edges to Sam. “You ready?”

“O-okay.” Sam tries to sound confident, reaches for the joint as Dean hands it over to him, lets his brother correct the grip of his fingers so it’s more comfortable, more natural. Dean’s eyes are bright and trained on his mouth, and he’s murmuring out the steps again, like he thinks Sam forgot what he said in the last two seconds. “Just loose there, you don’t gotta strangle it,” he says as Sam holds the paper up to his mouth, can’t help but touch his tongue to the end where it’s a little sweet and damp with Dean’s spit already. “Okay and just breathe it in all the way down into your lungs…” Dean coaxes, drawing his fingers down Sam’s chest along the path the smoke should take. Sam inhales deeply and he tries to hold it, he really does, but _fuck_ , it feels like there’s hot coals in his chest, like his lungs are so fucking pissed at him for doing this to them that they’ve just gone on strike, seized up under the heat and pressure so that he’s down all of a sudden on his knees with his eyes watering as he coughs, _hacks_ into his hands, trying to expel all of it, everything, from his poor, abused body and has he mentioned that his lungs are _on_ fucking _fire_?

He’s aware over the sound of his horrific asphyxiation that his brother is laughing at him, down on his knees too and rubbing Sam’s back consolingly, somehow having helpfully relieved Sam of the joint while Sam was busy dying, but also cackling his fucking head off. “Fuck you,” Sam manages to squeeze out, righteously pissed at Dean because he _knew_ this would happen, Sam’s sure of it. Although, when he blinks his watery eyes open to glare, the world is sort of soft and hazy at the edges.

“I’m never doing that again,” Sam states firmly, closing his eyes against the warm hum that’s buzzing lightly in his brain and sitting himself fully down on his ass, his back to the balcony wall and legs splayed out so that they’re sticking through the open door and into the apartment proper.

“Aw, Sammy,” Dean cajoles, taking another toke of his own. “Don’t be like that. It’ll get better, promise.” He leans in over Sam, leering a little. “You’re feeling it already, aren’t you? I can tell.” He wiggles his fingers in front of Sam’s face, chuckles when Sam’s eyes are slow to track them.

“Shut up,” Sam insists, even though he _is_ feeling it, much more than he expected to from just one hit. “Never again.”

“Nah, you gonna make me waste all this on myself?” Dean asks, and this time he blows the smoke right in Sam’s face, making Sam wrinkle up his nose in protest. He cuffs Sam on the shoulder, leaves a hand behind so he can shake it for emphasis. “You started strong, gotta keep it going. Got an idea, okay?” And Sam wants to say no, but Dean’s already moving, shifting onto his knees, throwing one leg over both of Sam’s and settling in so he’s sitting across Sam’s thighs and holding himself up with a hand splayed over Sam’s breastbone. “This’ll help, yeah? You just gotta breathe in when I breathe out, okay?”

“Dean, what are you—?” But Dean’s already got the joint between his lips, and Sam feels the expansion of Dean’s lungs under the palms he’d put on Dean’s chest to shove his brother away, and then Dean’s leaning into him, thumb on his bottom lip to draw his mouth open and Sam’s eyes go painfully wide because _this is not supposed to happen_ , but Dean stops a hairsbreadth from contact and then Sam feels the rush of warm air from his brother’s mouth, inhales on instinct because it’s what Dean told him to do. For a second, it’s like he can see the strand of smoke connecting them, a spirit jumping hosts as it settles down into his lungs and then disappears out into the air between them. Sam licks his lips without thinking, realizes as he goes through the motion that he’d have caught Dean’s too if his brother hadn’t already been pulling away.

“Better?” Dean asks, looking smug, and Sam nods.

“What’s the difference?” he asks. His eyes are starting to feel kind of heavy, something sweet and weighted thrumming out and down to his fingertips and toes and settling in deep.

“You gotta know everything, huh Sammy?” Dean says, but his tone is kind of fond and he ruffles a hand through Sam’s hair and leaves it there. “I dunno, really.”

Sam _hmms_ a little, unsurprised, thinking it over. “Maybe ‘cause it gets humid, in your body.”

“Hoo-mid,” Dean parrots, and Sam snorts way too hard because it’s not that funny except for how it totally is. “It’s all hoo-mid, so it doesn’t, you know, burn as much. Hold it in longer this time, okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, licking his lips again as he watches his brother lean in, guiding Sam up closer with the hand in his hair, and this time he’s ready for it, opens his mouth wide and leans in just a little, feels the barest catch of Dean’s upper lip against his as he breathes in deep, holds it for as long as he can this time before letting it go.

“That’s good, Sammy,” Dean says, and he’s sort of petting Sam now, fingers carding through Sam’s hair and nails scritching across his scalp as they go, but Sam really fucking likes it, likes the weight of Dean on his body, the way Dean’s holding him down to the earth. “That’s real good.” Dean takes another drag, and then he’s offering the joint to Sam, holding it to his lips and talking over Sam’s frown. “It’ll be better this time, you’re used to it.” So Sam leans in, eyes locked on Dean’s and glaring, although his eyes go a little wider and softer when realizes Dean was right. It’s nowhere near as smooth as getting it from Dean’s mouth, but the smoke hurts less now, and he’s able to keep it down for a few long beats, let it go with only a hitch in his breathing.

“You know, when you were little,” Dean says as he watches Sam pinch the joint between his fingers, bring it back to his lips, “you had the softest fuckin’ hair. You’d sit on me, you know, all the time like you were my fuckin’ teddy bear or something and, I’d just put my hands in your hair and you’d go to sleep right there.”

“Yeah?” Sam asks.

“Mhmm, and you’d drool on me, too,” Dean laughs, tugs at Sam’s hair so it pulls at his scalp and his body just arches into the motion, the tingling that spreads from his roots, out and around and back again.

“Dean!” He tries to wriggle out from under his brother, embarrassed and hot all over thinking of himself like that, curled up into his brother’s chest, small and demanding attention. It’s different now, better, because when they sleep, when Sam wakes up and he’s tangled up in Dean’s arms, it’s not conscious, not _on purpose_. Not like he asks Dean for it, because Dean doesn’t know about the sort of things that haunt Sam’s dreams.

“Nah, Sammy,” Dean soothes, and he’s sliding his fingers down Sam’s temples. “Didn’t mind, you know? Woulda kept you there all day, ‘f I could. This little thing, all mine.” His hands are drifting now, down the line of Sam’s neck, onto his shoulders, and the touch feels good, like _really_ way-too-good, dull effervescence under his skin that trips right down to where he realizes that despite the syrup-slowness of the blood in his veins, his dick is half-hard and twitching.

Dean’s still talking. “You changed so much, but you’re still soft, you know? Soft hair, soft skin, lookin’ at me with those soft eyes.” He slips his thumb into the hollow of Sam’s throat. “Still soft and still mine, yeah?” His eyes are out-of-focus, staring where his fingers are touching, but they bounce up to Sam’s now, a flicker of eyelashes so slow and distinct that Sam wants to feel it against his skin.

“Yeah, Dean. Always,” he agrees. “Always gonna be.” The look they share is too long, too heavy for the way Sam feels like he’s floating, but then Dean’s shaking his head, breaking it.

“You let it go out,” he says petulantly, grabbing what’s left of the blunt out of Sam’s hand. “Rookie move, Sammy.” He digs the lighter out of his jacket and relights it, takes another toke. “Finish this off, ‘ll be right back.” Sam accepts the joint from his fingers carefully, cherry burning close now, and once Dean moves off his legs he scoots his way down until he’s flat on his back, coolness of the cement bleeding into his skin, legs falling open as he grinds the heel of one hand down against his cock because for some reason, he’s just really, stupidly turned on, uses the other to get two more pulls, as deep and long as he can make them, before he has to stub the roach out on the ground or burn his fingers.

He lies there, eye closed, just breathing in spring air, the taste of pollen and exhaust fumes from the road below. He gets it, why Dean likes this, this feeling of being relaxed, not so much uncaring as just blunted all along the edges. The skin of his thighs where Dean had rested is pleasantly tingling, but even those thoughts don’t seem so scary anymore. Everything inside of him is lighter, warm, and he can feel the thrum of his pulse low in his belly where his dick is hard but not insistent the way it usually is, so that he can play his fingers over the swell of his balls through the cotton, rub a thumb up to the head and just really _feel_ it.

“Happens to me, too,” Dean’s voice says from the door, and Sam blinks his eyes open slowly to find Dean standing there, watching, eyes heavy-lidded and lips a little open. Sam should move his hand, he’s not so high that he doesn’t know better, but fuck it feels good and he doesn’t _want_ to.

“Weed makes me horny as fuck,” Dean finishes, and Sam can’t help the way his hips roll up into his hand on the last word, the way the consonants of it cut so cleanly off the edge of Dean’s teeth. Dean doesn’t seem to mind though, just settles down cross-legged, so close that his knees are pressing into Sam’s skin. He’s got another joint in one hand and his lighter in the other, shirt and jacket discarded somewhere back in the living room so he’s bare-chested now.

He lights up, says with smoke on his breath, “You gonna do it, Sammy? Gonna jerk yourself off, hmm? ‘s’not like I haven’t heard you before, little brother.” Sam shudders a little at the nickname, at the reminder, but it doesn’t stop him picking up speed in his movements, gripping himself through his sweatpants like Dean’s given him a command. Sam can’t take his eyes off his brother’s hands, the way the fingers flick the lighter open and closed compulsively like Dean needs something to do with them, the way the muscles flex and the bones move under the skin all the way down to the bend of his wrists, all the way up the length of his arms where they’re socketed in at his shoulders, just a skeleton under all that flesh, strong and flexible and just like Sam. They’re both the same really, just bones and blood, the same blood, Winchester blood, only Dean’s got all those freckles and green green eyes and they hardly even look the same, people don’t look at them and think _brothers_ but they are, they’re brothers and it’s everything. Everything Sam has in the world.

Dean’s eyes drift lazily down his body and he feels it like a touch only it’s not, because he _wants_ Dean to touch him, wants it so bad his skin burns like lungs full of smoke, and it’s out of his mouth before he knows his lips are moving, a pained exhale of “Touch me, please, touch me,” and he’s high and only getting higher when Dean _does_ , flips the lighter closed one more time, drops it to the floor and puts his hand flat on Sam’s chest.

“Can feel your heart,” Dean says, a little wonderingly, but his eyes are still locked in on the movement of the hand on Sam’s cock and his fingers dig into Sam’s skin, bite of dulled fingernails into the cage of Sam’s ribs like Dean’s trying to unlock it. “Get yourself out, Sammy, yeah? Feel so much better skin on skin, come on. Show me that dick.” The hand on his chest starts moving, stroking, fucking _caressing,_ and Sam knows he shouldn’t listen but he does anyway, gets two hands hooked on his waistband and lifts his hips so he can shove his pants and boxers down to mid-thigh, the air surprisingly cold until he wraps a hand around himself, thumbing at the precome that’s beading up at the tip and slicking it down along the vein. Dean’s fingers pluck at one of his nipples and Sam fucks up into his own fist with a whimper.

“Yeah, look at that. Fuckin’ perfect, knew you’d be so goddamn perfect for me, Sammy,” and Sam whines, knows he’s doing it and can’t stop himself because it feels so good and Dean sounds so good and Sam just wants him everywhere, wants Dean on top of him and all around him, wants to breathe Dean all the way down into his lungs and hold him there until he fucking chokes on it.

“ _Dean_ ,” he huffs out and it’s a demand and a plea all at once, and Dean’s looking down at Sam’s face, pupils dark under the weight of his eyelids, dragging that pink tongue across his bottom lip, and Sam twists his thumb around the head of his dick so tightly that his eyes flutter closed for half a second or maybe a minute, he’s not totally sure about time at this point. When he looks at his brother again, Dean’s sucking deep on the joint and then he’s leaning in, tossing it away, bracing himself, hands on either side of Sam’s head, saying, “Open up” and pressing smoke all the way down into Sam’s lungs with his tongue.

It’s deep and heady, wet and sweet, and Sam’s got one arm around his brother, feeling the soft skin over Dean’s spine and sucking on Dean’s tongue like it’s made of cotton candy because he’s _hungry_ , he’s never been so hungry and Dean tastes so fucking good. The smoke’s gone, the joint’s gone, and Sam’s forgotten he was ever high in the first place because this, _this_ is best feeling in the whole world, this is flying and falling all at once, every worry off his shoulders and Dean hot under his touch. Dean hooks a leg over his waist and then he’s knocking Sam’s hand out of the way, wrapping his own work-rough palm around Sam’s dick and Sam jerks into it so hard that Dean laughs, right into his mouth, mixes good humor all up in with their spit until Sam’s laughing too, staring at his brother’s green grass eyes and panting in the little gap between their mouths, breathless and groaning and so, so hard, and every place Dean touches him leaves a dragging burn behind, like a razor on unprotected skin, but it’s electric. “Fuck, Dean,” he says, says it again, draws it out because it feels good on his tongue. “ _Fuck_.”

“Yeah, you like that? Like my hand on your dick?” and Sam whimpers something affirmative but he wants _more_ , needs more because even though he’s never been touched like this, not even close, he’s also never been this horny in his life, and it’s still all a little drugged up, slowed down, Dean’s hand on him hot and ready but just this side of not enough.

“Lemme touch you, wanna just…fuck Dean, you have so many _freckles_ ,” and he squeezes a hand into the space between their bodies, rubs at the line of his brother’s nose and the sweep of his cheeks. Dean’s a little frozen at the touch, hand still on Sam’s cock and a little shiver going through him like he touched a live wire, and Sam puts both his hands on Dean’s face and draws him back in, running his tongue all through the hidden spaces of his brother’s mouth like he can commit it to memory, pulls Dean down and down into his body until they’re laying side-by-side on unforgiving concrete, Dean pressed in tight all along his front, humping his hips to meet every roll of Sam’s and his jeans are stiff and scratchy but it feels incredible, _magical_.

Dean makes a hurt little noise into his mouth and Sam knows that sound, pulls away from the tempting ridges of his brother’s teeth to ask worriedly, “Dean?” but Dean just grins.

“Zipper’s diggin’ into my dick,” he growls, and then Dean’s knuckles are bumping against Sam’s cock as he fumbles with his button in the space between them. He’s having a little trouble and Sam wonders if he’s this smooth with all his dates, lets out a happy little bubble of laughter at the thought that no, he’s like this just for Sam.

Dean rolls onto his back to shimmy out of his jeans, cocks an eyebrow at Sam. “Something funny?”

“Yeah,” Sam retorts, “your face.” Which sends them into a wave of snickers again and Dean’s face isn’t funny, it’s beautiful and smiling and Sam loves it, loves his big brother, tugs his sweatpants down in a mirror of Dean’s movements and then straddles himself, naked from the waist down, over Dean’s legs. The first drag of their unclothed cocks is magic all over again, and Sam’s so high he might actually cry.

“God, Sammy, just—goddamnit,” Dean growls out, eyes squeezed shut and head rolled back and Sam takes the invitation, licks his way up the arch of Dean’s neck and bites into his Adam’s apple, loves the way it vibrates against his teeth with Dean’s answering moan. He’s dragging his dick against his brother’s, rutting them alongside each other and it’s too much, too fucking much, hot and sticky and he’s too far gone to even feel the pain of the friction, the ache of his knees skidding on the concrete, and he fucks his body down into his brother with absolutely no coordination, nothing but heat and instinct and desperation.

“Gonna come, Dean,” Sam sobs out, “gonna—gonna,” and Dean’s eyes open wide, his tongue flicks out over his lips and he moans, “Do it,” and Sam does, shuddering hard against his brother, gasping out probably the best orgasm of his life into the sweaty skin of Dean’s neck.

He pulls back after a minute, t-shirt clinging wetly against him where it’s stained with his come. “So fuckin’ pretty, baby,” Dean says, dragging his fingers through what Sam left behind on the bare skin of his stomach. “Gonna get me off, too, hmm?” Sam blushes, knows he came too fast and too hard, but he nods, reaches between them and gets his hand around the hard line of Dean’s cock, jacks it the best he can when he’s never done this before, never even had it done _to_ him before tonight. Dean leans in, props himself up on his elbows so he can get his mouth against Sam’s, drag his tongue into and around it until Sam’s breathless all over again even though he never really caught his breath in the first place. Dean draws back after a minute, fingers stroking up and down Sam’s jaw and Sam wants to push into it, purr like a cat, but he’s too caught up in the awed look on Dean’s face, the amazed width of his eyes and the choked sound of his breath as he comes over Sam’s fist, gets Sam’s grip all hot and messy with it. “ _God_ ,” he chokes out, and then he collapses back onto the patio, arms around Sam to pull him down, too.

He listens to the pounding of Dean’s heartbeat settle into something calmer, the steady thump of it lulling his mind into something serene and peaceful until, before he even realizes it’s happening, he’s asleep.

***

Sam wakes up in the bedroom, sprawled out on top of the mattress with a sheet pulled up to his waist. His dirty shirt is gone and his sweatpants are back on, and he feels a little mortified when he realizes Dean must have put him back together and carried him in here, laid him down, tucked him in. Only Dean’s not here now, and Sam is alone. The clock reads 11:23 PM, and for a long moment, he just lies there, feeling the weirdness in his body—it’s not bad, just something like displacement, like his soul is easing its way back into its housing but isn’t all the way there yet. But he can only stay so long before the worry starts to seep in through every crack it can find.

Oh god. He jerked off his brother. He’s got his big brother’s come dried in his fingernail beds, pulling the skin tight when he flexes his hand.

And oh god, the whole thing was so, _so_ good. Dean’s mouth and Dean’s hands all over his body, the way Dean’s smile tasted, the way his dick felt against Sam’s. Sam flushes all over when he thinks about it, about how he’d never, ever allowed himself to want Dean outside of his dreams, about how he’d never done anything sexual like that before with anyone else, about how he can’t believe he let it go that far, about how Dean is probably freaking the fuck out right now, thinking he’d taken advantage of his intoxicated little brother.

 _Shit_.

Sam scrambles out of the covers, crying out softly in surprise at the twinging pain in his knees. He sits on the edge of the mattress, shoves the cuff of his sweatpants up to reveal the angry red, scabbed up mess he hadn’t realized he was making of his skin at the time. It probably needs antibiotic cream or something, but he can deal with that later, because right now he needs to find Dean and stop him before he does something really stupid, like running away.

Fortunately, Dean hasn’t gone far, probably convinced he shouldn’t leave the apartment in case Sam woke up scared or confused. Sam finds him on the balcony, leaning on the railing and staring down into the dark, empty street, cigarette burning between his fingers and a beer resting by his elbow. Sam stops in the doorway, doesn’t even know what to say.

“Hey,” he tries, and then tries not to feel hurt by the visible tensing of Dean’s shoulders. He’s surprised by the roughness of his own voice.

“Hey,” Dean replies after a long minute. His voice is a little scratchy, too, and Sam realizes it must have been the smoke.

Sam watches him pick up the bottle, take a long draught, put it back down. The quiet is unsettling, nervous, and Sam hates it when things get like this between them, so he takes a deep breath, lets it go, moves forward to snag Dean’s beer for himself and take a sip. Dean looks at him with something like amusement, and Sam looks back steadily because really, his brother just got him high for the first time and has no room to argue the point, but the moment is over too quickly, like Dean realizes what he’s doing, that he’s acting like things are _normal_ between them, and he shuts right back down again.

Sam turns so that he’s leaning back against the balcony wall, shoulder close enough to Dean’s that he feels something like static between them. He takes another swallow, sets the beer back down on the railing. “Just to be clear,” he says, as evenly as he can manage, “what happened between us? I wanted it.”

Dean scoffs, sticks the cigarette in his mouth and takes a long pull and Sam wonders if that tastes any different than pot smoke on Dean’s lips. “You’re sixteen, Sam,” he replies, and Sam can hear the current of self-loathing running strong in it. “You’re just a kid, and you were high as a fucking kite, and I—and I—”

“Stop it,” Sam cuts in firmly, glaring. “Stop it. Yeah, I’m sixteen, so what? You didn’t know who you wanted to fuck around with when you were sixteen, Dean?”

“That’s not the same, Sam! I’m your _brother_ , for Christ’s sake!”

“So? You really think this is the first time I ever wanted to do something like that with you?” Dean opens his mouth like he’s got a comeback, but then it just sort of hangs open in disbelief as Sam’s words catch up to him. “It’s not,” Sam clarifies, just in case Dean wants to try and twist his words around on him. He reaches out, puts a hand on his brother’s arm. “It’s something I never let myself think about but…but I’ve wanted it for a long time.”

Dean frowns and turns his head away again, and Sam’s heart drops into his stomach. He pulls his hand away, shoves it through his own hair and down to rest on the back of his neck, kneads his fingers into the skin there like that will settle him. “It’s okay if you didn’t want to, though,” he says, hates the way his voice sounds so small. “We don’t—we can just forget it ever—”

Dean doesn’t let him finish. “Sammy, no,” he interrupts fiercely, and Sam watches the cigarette hit the concrete and roll away. “No, it’s not—just look at me, would you?” Sam does, lifts his head a little reluctantly, then almost melts into the hand that Dean puts on his cheek. “I’ve wanted this for a long time, too, okay? Way longer than I should have.” His face goes pensive. “Not that I should want it at all.”

Sam doesn’t have a response for that, not when he knows it’s probably true for both of them. But at this point, he’s not sure he cares very much. Yeah so, they’re even more messed up than they thought they were but definitely not more messed up than their entire lives. And hell, at least they’re messed up together. He shuffles in a little closer to Dean’s body, cups his hand around the bend of Dean’s elbow. “So we could maybe, uh, do it again?” he asks, licks his lips and watches Dean’s eyes follow the movement.

Dean’s face splits into a predatory sort of grin. “Maybe,” he teases, leans in, presses his lips to Sam’s. Sam knows they’re not done talking about it, but he’s too relieved that Dean’s doing this to worry about the backlash he knows is coming down the road.

The kiss is warm and soft, tender in a way their earlier kisses hadn’t been, and Sam wants to fall into it, but before he lets himself, he slides his fingers up to grip around Dean’s wrist and pushes him back a little. “I need to tell you something, first. And you can’t make fun of me, okay?”

“Okay,” Dean agrees solemnly.

Sam drops his chin so he can hide behind his bangs and gnaws a little on his bottom lip before he blurts out, “That um…what we did earlier? That was the farthest I’ve ever—I mean, I don’t have a lot of—I just…that was all a little fast for me.”

“But you told me—”

“I might have exaggerated,” Sam interjects apologetically, drops his eyes down to the floor. “I just wanted to impress you. Didn’t figure it’d ever matter if I….”

Dean laughs out loud, and Sam’s eyes spring back up in annoyance because Dean had _just_ promised not to make fun of him. “Dean!” he starts, but his brother shakes his head.

“No, Sammy, I mean. All it did when you told me that was piss me off.”

A smile blooms up on Sam’s face, too, and he edges in a little closer. “Yeah? Made you jealous, huh?”

“I never said that,” Dean counters, but it doesn’t matter to the warm feeling of being wanted that’s working its way all through Sam’s body. “So,” Dean continues, settling his hands on Sam’s hips, rubbing his thumbs over the line of bone there in a way that makes Sam shiver. “We’ll take it slow, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sam replies, a little ashamed of how unsteady his voice has already gotten just from Dean’s gentle touch.

“No more pot, not for a while anyway.” Dean leans in, mouths a little at the thin skin under Sam’s ear.

“Probably a good idea,” Sam agrees breathlessly.

“Probably no alcohol either,” Dean continues, moving his lips along the line of Sam’s jaw as one hand moves over the bones of his ribcage. “How do you feel about making out, hmm?”

“Good,” Sam says hurriedly. “Definitely good.”

“Okay,” Dean says, and his teeth catch lightly on Sam’s bottom lip. “Then we’ll start there.”


End file.
